'Goodman Di Laltaen’ and ‘Tunde Laat Di Phauj’

 Since this is Punjabi folklore, fable, I should  perhaps write this in Punjabi, with seasoning, to get the flavour right.

However, Punjabi seasoning like ‘your pen’s ink’ (Teri Pen-Di Ink) and ‘your mother’s dal’ (Todde Maa-Ki, Dal) are to be only whispered under the breath, with stiff British upper lip, in the hallowed portals where Gorillas congregate (the parliament). So, I shall try and tell this ancient Indian story in civilized language. ‘Civilized’ is a very vague word, in the ‘Crae-jee’ mumbo-jumbo of the Indian ‘Mantri-jees’, who are to be found only in the jungles of Lutyens’ Delhi. I  am told that they secretly congregate as parliament, once in a while, usually at night, to bash each other on the head with broken chair and microphones to govern India, all the time muttering TPD, TMK, BC and MC in unadulterated Punjabi. Lest I be deemed less civilised than our parliamentarians, I will try and tell it in Queen’s E, which is India’s national language, reason why ‘April turned May’, or is it June,  asked the British to ‘Brexit’ and bugger off, to come and re-conquer India. What a good, I am loving it like Sub-Way sandbitch.

All inspirational Indian folklore has to have some British and rest Punjabis in it, so does ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’ and ‘Tunde Laat Di Fauj’ .

The folklore goes  something like this.

About 185 years ago, at the eastern and western ends of India (‘Law-hore’, now in Pak Land, and the black hole of ‘Kol-Kota’, now in Mamta Land), there lived two illustrious gentlemen, who had quite a few things in common. Both were great warrior chiefs, who had left behind body parts in the battle field.

The truth is that the eye of the former was lost due to small pox in Gujranwala and the hand of the latter went into a wagon wheel somewhere between Crimea and Caucasus. Since I can’t tell it like it was in Punjabi, I need to tell it like Shekhar Gupta, with man bite dog sound-bites, a few lies here and there to make this interesting. Besides I don’t want to offend God Man ‘Baba Ram Rahim Insan’ and make him issue a fatwa from jail, because my story lacks the sex appeal of his muse ‘Honey’, who made money. So I will start the story again. About 185 years ago,………….

In the west, Punjab under the parliament of the ‘Punjabi Subha’ at ‘Law-hore’, captained by Maharaja Ranjit Singh, was a very prosperous and well governed country, because the Maha Raja had a laissez faire Nelson’s view of governance. He didn’t promise good governance like Modi, but flogged the tax men Gulabh Singh and his dubious brother Dhyan for deviations in GST and De-Mon.

In the east, the East India Company (EIC) at Calcutta was a very prosperous and well governed company, turned great country called ‘Yindia’, sorry India, governed by a ‘secret conclave’, captained by the Governor General, Lord Edward Law, 1st Earl of Ellenborough. He too flogged the tax man, Lord Osborne, once in a  while threatening to cut off his gonads because EIC was bankrupt because none paid sat tax and CST, excise Duty, countervailing duty, death tax, living tax, breathing tax and so on.

Despite their physical handicaps, both team captains could hit sixes at every IPL like Gawaskar, though they never had any India-Pak matches, at least till the super-shitter, sorry supper-hitter Maharaj Ranjit was still around. That was because their bats were not Kashmiri Willow, but two armies made of iron men. The Maharaj had a French deserter turned Englishman  Jean-Francois Allard as army chief, and Italian turned Teri Pen Di Jean-Baptiste Ventura  as army commander. In the east, the pearl, sorry Earl, had a blind man turned Field Marshal, Hugh George, 1st Viscount of Gough, as the Centurion Pontius Buggerusall, as commander of the Indian army. This story is not about the clash of the Titans at Mudki and Soberon in 1846, but about  ‘Goodman Di Laltaen. and Tunde Laat Di Phauj’. So let me begin again. About 185 years ago,………….

Britain was suffering from plague and the British, sorry ‘Britishers’, they were doing Brexit, without Lords Peel, Macauly, or Mumbaikar Meri Lele, egging them on like ‘ Jan to Dec’, sorry May, definitely May. Seeing the prosperity and business opportunities offered in the region, amongst the many who did Brexit, and ran to make a buck in India, was young teen aged entrepreneur David Goodman. No, he was not the Guajarati who ran to  Uganda at the same time.  When every British entrepreneur scurried into the rat holes in the interiors of ‘Yindia’, sorry India, Goodman went east on an elephant till Duliajan. There, his elephant got bogged down in slush and mud and he had to  hire  several elephants to  extricate his ‘Hathi Mere Sathi’. The Hathi is a leading item number in his story with  background score by Beethoven of Madras.

Afterwards, in the cesspool created by the trampling hip  shaking elephants during item number, Goodman noticed a crude black oily, very viscous substance, floating on water. He syphoned out some, put it in his tea kettle and boiled it. Nothing much happened till  the kettle cooled. ‘Viola’, Teri Pen Di, the viscous crude substance split into two parts. A less viscous waxy solid ‘oliphant’ (it is a chemical name, not the poo of the poor elephant) and a base layer of highly viscous tar ‘asphaltine’ (not related to Horlicks or Ovaltine).  It was an earth shaking discovery, but at that time Goodman had no idea what to do with it. His ‘Chinese’ green tea and the ruddy kettle were ruined, but he brought some of it  back to Kol-Kota in Mamta Land in the tea kettle, and set about wondering what to do  with it, while he paid 10 Pounds as licence fee to grow tea in 100 hectors at Duliajan, in Ahom land (erstwhile ‘Chutia’ kingdom – no this is  not obscenity, but early historical name of territory in upper Assam !!). Goodman took  a while to clear the Chutia jungles  and plant Chutia tea instead of Chutia coffee. But being a brilliant businessman, he discovered that he could make a buck making hitherto unknown candles with the Chutia stuff in the kettle, if he threaded a wick through its backside, without offending the puritan missionary Bishop Cotton. Immediately he paid another 10 Pounds to East India company as licence fee to set up a company called ‘Lamp Black’ in Duliajan and to  exploit the mineral resources of the Chutia kingdom. All this is documented history and I didn’t cook it up, I swear to God.

‘Goodman’s Candles’ from Lamp Black produced more smoke than light and got extinguished if there was a wind. So he invented, designed and manufactured what he called ‘Goodman’s Lantern’, which sold like hot cakes on all continents on earth,  along with his ‘Goodman’s Candles’. It not only lit homes, but also streets, ships, light houses, horse drawn carriages, and enabled cattle class to go  early morning to defecate in the fields with nary a care for ‘Swach Bharat’. ‘Goodman’s Lantern’ went where ever God said ‘let there be light to show the heathen the way, drive the fear and darkness from their hearts’, even in Punjab. Bishop Cotton, a shareholder of ‘Lamp Black’, preached hell and brimstone to promote  ‘Goodman’s Lantern’. Goodman became very  rich, like Ram Rahim Di Insan, almost godly, all over the Indian sub-continent. In Punjab it was pidginised as ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’ (Goodman’s Lantern). Lantern became the symbol of good, brave, illustrious deeds of a good man, like the political  symbol of Ra Ga Congress, ‘Sonia Ki Hath’.  Goodman  Di Laltaen eventually became an adulatory adjective, an award like Bharat Ratna, which carried rewards of jagirs, large tracts of land that made recipients a  Jagirdar, Jilladar or Tahasildar, depending on the area of land that was bequeathed to him as ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’.

That was in Punjab.

Piche Mud, look east now. About 185 years ago,………….

In a world of sycophancy in ancient Hindustan, art of survival under a thousand  years of occupation, ‘Laat’ was a tribute paid  to a great man (not to  be confused with ‘Lath’). ‘Laat’ was complimentary, but ‘Lath’ derogatory (as in Lathon Ke Bhoot;  bad people who  deserved a kick). A Raja was referred to as ‘Laat Saheb’ (big Lord), an emperor a ‘Jangi Laat’ (master of the world). When  British came  to rule Hindustan, the Gov Gen was nicknamed  ‘Jangi Laat’. However, when  poor Edward Law, 1st Earl of Ellenborough, came to rule East India Company, in Punjab he was derogatively deemed ‘Tunde Laat’, the emperor with no hands or legs, like a kebab with no NFU. If someone didn’t perform in Allard’s army, he was ridiculed as a ‘Tunde Laat’, a handicapped soldier with no allegiance,  camaraderie or  valour, a disgrace.  Strangely Ranjit Singh was also referred to by peasants as ‘Kana Laat’ (one eyed emperor), but with great affection and reverence. Funny people, these Punjabis, like Paki CoAS, Gen Qamar Javed Bajwa, who says  ‘Balle Balle’ while doing unspeakable things to Jangi Lath Nawaz Ki Aawaz,  that he is Bilkul Sharif . Ok back to the story.

After Ranjit Singh died in Jun 1839, Punjabi  Subha went berserk, in an internecine political war, palace intrigues, loot of treasury and murder (like 8 Indian non-functional  PMs, ‘Tunde Laths’ with erectile dysfunction,  who came and went after Rajeev Gandhi was assassinated). Ranjit’s last of  36 concubines, the daughter of a kennel keeper, Jindan (Junda Kishore) and her lover Labh Singh (a Sikh Tahasildar),  rose to political power with the help of Dogra Gulabh Singh, who  coveted the biggest salt mine  in the word at Khewra, as well as, to be ‘Jangi Lath’ of  Jammu & Kashmir.  The Punjab army (not Pakis mind you) stood in the way. And since they were not  being paid regularly, started an OROP like agitation. Soon they were banished to south of Satluj as ‘Badmen Di Laltaen’, to Soberon facing the English garrison of Firozpur, and a diversionary deep penetration strike further east at Mudki, with the aim of blowing up  the large British ammo  and gun factories at Philour. The Punjabi army was put  under command of ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’ Labh Singh, a Dogra. It precipitated the first Anglo-Sikh war in 1846. Punjab’s mighty army that maintained peace and prosperity for 40 odd years, was written off. Punjab surrendered and became a vassal state of the country called Reliance, sorry East India Company.  Sob, Sob.

Our ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’, the modern Indian armed forces, were made ‘Tunde Laat Di Phauj’ after Pakis responded to exercise Brass-tacks, with ‘Zorbe-Moimim’, the doctrinal  ‘Act Of God’, nuclear détente. When Chinese come to proclaim  ‘Dhoka Law’ in Chumbi Valley, all the Tunde Laat Di Phauj could do was the ‘Lungi Up’ manoeuvre and offer Jappi,  Pappi and Chumbi.  I feel very sorry, no not for the army, but our ‘Jangi Laat’, sorry Tunde Laat, sorry  Modi Laat,  because of ‘Zorbe-Moimim’ which gives him finger trouble, to press N Button.

The ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’ are quite happy doing socially useful and productive work (SUPW) holding a broom instead of a rifle to do Swach Bharat, sweep everything under the carpet. Or go save children in bore wells, act as National Disaster Relief Force or build over-bridge in Mumbai. All that Tunde Laat needs to do,  to become Jangi Laat, is to teach his arthritic fore finger to do yoga, to push the N-button, turn our N-doctrine  from NFU (no first use) to ‘teri pen di’ first use, like Kim Jong-Un. After  that just watch how the Indian armed forces  turn colour to ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’ instantly from current Tunde Laat Di Phauj .

Mr America, the penultimate Jangi Laat, has  given ‘Modi Laat’, our PM/She Em,  Jappi, Pappi and Chumbi, while he only shook hands with Mamnoon Hussain and Xi Jinping. Their hands are dirty, while our ‘Modi Laat’ is a very clean man, very huggable and kissable. This is the right time Modi Laat Ji, to get rid  of arthritis on your fore finger. What is the problem, let us collectively  say ‘Booooooooo’, a new war cry, and see if Pakis and Gen Bajwa run off to Dubai with their ‘Zorbe-Moimim’ Ki -Pen-Di doctrine, saying Balle Balle.  

Cheers to ‘Goodman Di Laltaen’ and ‘Tunde Laat Di Phauj’

CYCLIC

The Gorkha

This is a forward that tickled my cockles early this morning.

Don’t know whether it is fact or fiction, I don’t  care.

It is a heart-warming story, well told. You can hear bag pipes play while you read. Perhaps the tune is ‘Jaya Mahakali, Ayo Gorkhali’.

Cheers to the Gorkhas.

Unni Kartha

*The GURKHA*

 "This was sent by a cousin who was a planter all his life. First in the Darjeeling Hills and then later in the Annamalais.

 In this time of pain for all my Darjeeling family, a short story of what our forefathers have been through:

 CIRCA 1968: It would be cold for at least another hour. Then, when the Sun peered over the hill and warmed the frozen earth, the frost would thaw and begin rising off the ground like sepulchral mist. 

 “It will be nice to feel the sun on my back,” thought Harkadhoj Limbu, for the winter months on Sukvah Tea Estate were long and cold.

 The thousand acre property, which the British sahibs used to call a Garden, looked directly across the valley at another Company property,the Pahar Tea Estate. Pahar was not as pretty or as productive as Sukvah, and it did not face the magnificent Kanchenjunga Snow Range. The disadvantage of this majestic view was the cold wind that continually came off the mighty Himalayan massif. It filtered through the flesh and chilled old arthritic bones; bones long since splintered and mangled. 

 Harkadhoj Limbu's body had faced more than its fair share of privation and hardship. The cold water he splashed on his face now forced him to inhale sharply. One of these days, he thought wryly, he might inhale so hard there might not be enough strength left in him to exhale. Yet, it was a routine he had followed all his life. There was a short interruption because of the war, which had kept him away from this little rivulet but that was many, many years ago. 

 His wife Kanchi was alive then. So alive and so petite! His heart raced, as it always did, when he thought of her. He smiled a forlorn smile and pictured again that last time he saw her. She was radiant in the throes of early pregnancy, with little Birbhadur in her belly. A son for whom she gave her life for without medical attention in her village, she had died at childbirth.

 He had left the country resplendent in uniform and a salute that served as farewell. Removing his cap he had kissed Kanchi full on the lips before leaping into the military transport van filled with grinning Ghurkha soldiers bound for lands across the Kala Pani but before that they would be taken to the nearby temple first: a Priest’s blessings were essential before their Hindu beliefs allowed them to cross the Oceans and Seas that lay ahead.

 His thoughts turned to his son, Birbhadur, who grew to manhood without the benefit of a mother. What a mother Kanchi would have made! Apity she wasn’t there when Birbhadur suffered rejection at Sandhurst, for colour-blindness was unacceptable at England's prestigious Military College. But spoiled by the blinkered love of a devoted father, Birbhadur took for granted the many sacrifices Harkadhoj had made to put him through College and architectural training abroad. He finally settled down as a fully qualified architect in Nepal, never to visit or acknowledge his father again.

 Harkadhoj knew that his son was ashamed of him and that was fitting. He was, after all, a mere estate labourer while his son now mixed in exalted company, where Royalty and the Palace were not excluded. He still continued to enjoy his father's pension. It had been essential when he was a student but although he didn't need it anymore, it was there for the taking. After all, what wouldhis father do with all that money?

Thinking of Birbhadur made him smile again. Harkadhoj was proud of his son. It was a pity that he couldn’t have become a Ghurkha officer. How smart he would have looked in uniform, marching to a militaryband… he could still hear the strains of bagpipes, from a bygone era, playing ‘Cock Of The North’ and his thoughts strayed to distant battlefields before returning to the present.

 Today the Chairman, Peter Ross, would be visiting Sukvah tea garden. Peter Ross, a retired Ghurkha officer was also the Managing Director of the company. He would have liked to meet him but that wouldn’t be possible. Old folk, past the retirement age and kept employed out of sympathy, would be tucked out of sight from any visiting dignitary. Instead they were to sickle weeds on a remote boundary bordering a tea field that had been hard pruned.

 Pruning was an art. It was a job that Harkadhoj had been comfortable with in the old days. He had a natural ability with a knife. Most Ghurkha’s did but he could, with a flick of the wrist, slice through a two-inch diameter stem of tough tea wood leaving the cut clean and smooth. It was essential that it be smooth, without those visible marks made by less skilled pruners whose hacking would leave rough protrusions to serve as entry points for bacteria. Bacteria caused excessive die back on the pruned branches and sometimes even killed a hard pruned bush.

 Now it hurt to even think of flicking his wrist, with or without a knife in his hand. Involuntarily flexing his arm, he remembered the shock on the face of a large German soldier when his kukri had severed the head of his bayonet charging comrade in the thick of battle. Hand to hand combat was the forte of the Ghurkhas and even now his heart raced to the cry of ‘ayo gurkhalli’ as they charged into pitched battle, their kukris held high… and then the blood, dripping down shiny steel blades.

 The sun was beginning to paint the enormous mountain. Starting from the very peak, it began turning the ghostly ethereal snow into vibrantcrimson; an enormous backdrop of blood. Beautiful as it was, Harkadhoj had seen enough blood during the war years to last his lifetime. He turned away, a sickness of old gnawing at his stomach.

 The Sun completed its masterpiece and then began the earnest business of warming the frozen earth. The first rays of sunshine took the chill out of Harkadhoj's body. He shivered as the clawing cold released him but each day it seemed to retain a little of his spirit. He knew that soon there would be nothing left to give.

 With the warmth, blood began circulating. Tongues loosened, and amidst the soft chatter of his companions, arms moved rhythmically wielding sickles in constantly changing arcs. Weeds cut down were left where they fell. It reminded him of the past. Everything reminded him of the past: then it was men who were mown down, to be left where they fell.

 The mid-afternoon sun silenced the earlier drone of bees and arrested the chirping of birds. Such was the silence that Harkadhoj could hear faint voices from a mile away. There was little doubt to whom they belonged – the put-on airs of the Manger, John Benson and the softer cultured accents of the Chairman. Something was wrong. He couldn't put a finger on it until he realised that the voices were coming closer. But the visiting dignitary should not be coming in this direction.

 It was soon apparent that they were heading for this work spot. Perhaps the Chairman had insisted on following his instincts rather thanbeing guided by John Benson. 

 "Very sensible", thought Harkadhoj, "if that is the case."

 But this was not so. Benson, overly keen to impress the Chairman, had got so carried away with boasting about his achievements, that he had taken the wrong path through the Tea bushes and was soon at the last place he would have wanted to visit with his Chairman.

 The work here was never up to standard. The old folk were no longer capable of whetting their implements to the required degree of sharpnessand to bend that low, to cut grass and weed just above ground level, was impossible. It was already too late when John Benson realised his predicament and he had nobody to blame but himself. His recourse predictably was to express astonishment and then rage at the poor quality of work.

 "Yo ekdam naramro kaam ho!" He thundered. "Belight ma ... " Continuing in chaste Ghurkhali with a British ‘Lord Haw-Haw’ accent he said, "In England such work would be unacceptable. It is a pity that none of you have been to England. Little wonder then that India is in this sad state!"

Carried away by his eloquence, Benson thundered on, "You people have not seen good work. You never will see good work because you have never been to England!" The haranguing continued for some time.

 His glasses glinted and his moustache bristled as fiercely as the noonday sun. Surreptitiously glancing at the Chairman to see what impact he had made, he glared defiantly at the workers. Dropping his sickle Harkadhoj straightened, bringing his weary mutilated body to attention. Barefoot, in old torn khaki shorts and a shirt full of patches, he took a deep painful breath and addressed himself to Peter Ross, ignoring Benson. 

 Benson's face was suffused with blood. His whiskers drooped a fraction and his outrage was manifest. How dare the natives usurp centre stage like this!

 “Chuup gar, you damned impertinent savage!”

 "I have been to England." Harkadhoj stated. His dead pan voice cut through the hushed assembly as he continued. "I have been to parts of England that you have never been to, or will ever be allowed into!" 

 "Which parts of England are you referring to?" Asked Peter Ross. His voice was gentle and there was a hint of mirth that indicated he wasprepared to enjoy what was to follow. Peter Ross knew the Gurkhas. He knew them well, for through the war he had served with Ghurkha Regiments as had his father before him.

"I have been to Buckingham Palace,” said Harkadhoj, sticking his chest out even further as he stood to attention.

 Benson was about to splutter about the absurdity of that statement. A mere common labourer on a Tea Plantation – at Buckingham Palace indeed! The Chairman waved Benson into silence to ask:

 “What were you doing at Buckingham Palace?”

 "I was the Queen's personal Bodyguard for two years."

 This spoke volumes for the man since the Bodyguards were normally changed annually. To have been retained an extra year must have significance. Ross was immediately curious.

 "Which Regiment were you with?" He asked.

 "I was with the Seventh Ghurkha Rifles."

 "You were in Tobruk, El Alamein and Monte Casino?" Peter Ross was now fully engrossed and concentrating hard on the features of Harkadhoj.

 "Hazoor! Yes Sahib," confirmed Harkadhoj.

 Were you decorated?" 

 Almost everyone Ross knew, who emerged alive from that arena, had received some award.

 "I initially got the Military Cross. After a few months I was informed that a Bar had also been added. After the War I received the 'Nepal Tara' or 'Star Of Nepal' from King Mahindra." 

 Then reluctantly, almost ashamedly, looking at the ground he whispered:

 "I was cited for the Victoria Cross."

 The silence became electric.

 That night Harkadhoj was the Chief guest at the party held in honour of the Chairman. Peter Ross had especially asked that Harkadhoj bepresent and that I, who was the junior most Assistant Manager in the Company, see to it that Harkadhoj present himself in full Military regalia. This had been difficult. 

 I put his un-ironed trousers under the mattress to be pressed. The coat had to be darned in a few places. The Military Cross, the 1939-45 Star, the Italy Star and the War Medal, along with some attendant Oak Leafs, which signified dual awards, had to be affixed to a piece of cardboard placed under the shirt. This was done to keep the weight of the metal from tugging the fabric askew and thatwouldn't have done at all.

 The Star Of Nepal was attached to a blue ribbon left over from a Christmas present wrapping, and put around Harkadhoj's neck. Shoes? Well he couldn't fit into my size twelve’s with his five and a half size feet but a khaki pair of sneakers, belonging to my butler, served the purpose.

 "Harkadhoj, what was the citation for?" Asked the Chairman.

 "Near El Alamein, a German Panzer division surprised us at dawn. They came over a low hill and we were caught stranded in the middle of the desert. Many of us were killed instantly. Most were able to flee to nearby dunes and escape. One British Officer was caught in the middle. He was alive but a bullet in the spine had paralysed him. I was close by and managed to drag him to safety."

 "My God! So it was you. I was there but frozen with shock. That was my cousin you saved. He has spoken about you ever since. Struth! But you were riddled with bullets. I saw the dust come off your shirt. You shielded Andrew with your body. He owes you his life!"

 "Sahib, it was he who helped put my son through College in England. He has done enough for me."

 This was obviously not enough for Peter Ross. But Harkadhoj refused any monetary help and a saddened Chairman went back to England stilldetermined to do something for this gallant soldier.

 Six months later the Victoria Cross was awarded to Harkadhoj Limbu for Bravery Above And Beyond The Call Of Duty. It was posthumous. Harkadhoj had died a week before the award was made. 

I think he would have preferred it that way.. "

MATHS RAM

Maths was my waterloo, which prevented me from becoming Napoleon.

My father PEG was Ramanujam, the decimal man. While he was not administering Karachi, when I was yet to line up as an embryo in his scrotum, he spent all his time writing maths books, ‘Teach Yourself Maths’ series, five volumes, which became the first Maths Ram text books in Independent India as well as well as Pak. Unfortunately, when my turn came to line up as an embryo post-independence, my father did not pass any of his DNA to me, reason why I was Musth Ram and not Maths Ram. 

At ‘Amba-La-Puzha’ where I was born and grew up, when  I was rearing to go and be  the goal keeper in the local junior communist football league match (with a tennis ball) on Sunday mornings, my father  would snigger, ‘Come, let us prove zero is not equal to  zero’; which was  his  funniest joke. 

As I grew  up, under the shadow of the comely Marxist terrorist  Miss Kunnikkal Ajitha, nurtured and tutored  by the Rasputin EMS Bumboo-Thiri-Pad, I became allergic  to  many people besides my father; Pythagoras, Calculus and Arithmatix in particular - all of them considered to be anti-people, all Maths Rams. Sadly, my father deposed my Napoleonic ambitions and sent me to  St Elba (Rimc), where I  was fed scotch eggs, like slow lead poisoning of Napoleon, to kill the commie worms in my tummy and turn me from vermin to soldier, still with  a grudge towards  my father, Pythagoras, Calculus and Arithmatix, the Maths Rams of my life. I didn’t have to worry about Mathematrix or curvaceously comely  Cos Theta, just the silly 1/ 60 rule of navigation, till I decided to become a test pilot at the age of 32.

In the outback of Bidar, where I was posted as a flying instructor, salvation was in Papnash and Nanak Jeera. Life became difficult on a salary of around Rs 850, especially when  my tiny son  started eating  like ‘Bhima’, one  tin of  baby food in two days. It made me bankrupt.  After a combined visit to  Papnash and Nanak Jeera, I got salvation, enlightenment. ‘Do A2 and go to Iraq, Saddam will take care of you’,  the Gods whispered in my ears. So I dusted the old copies of IAP 124, FIS précis, and the ‘Naval Aviator’s Ki Voh’, but got stumped by illustrious finger master Punia Sir who took the viva, mother of all A2 tests.

He  asked, ‘Why are golf balls dimpled’ ?

‘I have no  clue’, I told him seriously. ‘I don’t play golf, only football with a tennis ball’.

He  gave me another chance.

‘Why do bowlers vigorously rub one side, same side of the cricket ball, on their crotch, before they bowl ?’.

‘Perhaps they have a Dhobi’s itch ?’, I  suggested with wit and a QFI’s ‘fault finding’ wisdom, hopping to be sent to Iraq. I was going to add ‘Elementary Dr Watson’, but didn’t, because of Saddam’s wet dreams were not supposed to have humour in it.

Punia told me to go learn Kutta’s theorem and Magnus effect, the things that happen  in boundary layer. He told me to go befriend Maths Ram Mathematrix, whom I had avoided even in FIS.  In any case, the Gods in Papnash and  Nananjeera had given same enlightenment to every man and beast in Training Command, starting from the C-in-C to the AF police at the railway gate in Bidar which doubled as the quarter guard. The same Saddam wet dreams. The queue was very long, from Trg Cmd to AEB in Hindon.  I realised that by the time my turn came, my son would have grown a moustache between his legs despite my bankruptcy.

So I went again to Papnash and  Nanank jeera, bribed Lord Shiva with go-go nuts, put 50 Naya Paisa into Jeera Hundi, and sought further advice. Despite many appeals, the Gods were silent. Apply, apply no reply.  Several days later, it was the ghost of Kutub Shahi Sultan Qasim Barid who gave me good advice. ‘Go  become a TP, you will get Rs 400 per month, a 50% pay hike’.

So it was that I turned up in ASTE begging to be made a TP. They promptly handed me two question papers, and gave me an hour to answer each. The first was about flying and aeronautics, not difficult for a QFI with Saddam dreams. But the second one was pure Maths Ram, with Pythagoras, Trignometrix, Calculus, ‘Tadka Marke, with Khatta Nimbu and no salt’.

I could hear my late father’s ghost snigger, ‘come, let us prove zero  is not equal  to zero’.  I scored zero, because the only thing  I wrote on the answer  sheet, my service number, it wasn’t even a prime number. ‘Go learn Maths and come back  again’, venerable W/C (Later Air MShl) Philip Sir counselled. He was even kind to take me to the library, and loan me about  25 volumes of Abbot’s ‘Teach Yourself Maths Ram’.

While lugging 50 kg of Maths Ram, I missed my father for the first time. He had facilitated seedlings of independent India with only 5 volumes of his Maths Ram, and here I was lugging 25 volumes of Abbot Ki Voh. My Dad’s ghost was nowhere around to consult with, and Kutub Shahi was allergic to the curvaceous Cos Theta.

My wife helped teach me count backwards and forwards using Naya Paisa instead of abacus. She went on to teach me multiplication tables too,  ‘Do  Bata Do, Panch’. Soon she became PhD and I remained King of Zero. It took me about 6 months to become a Maths Ram, befriend Pythagoras, Calculus and Arithmatix and  Mathematrix, even the curvaceous Cos Theta. Yes, I also converted my service number to a prime number. To cut a long story short, I passed the Maths Ram test, by the skin  on my teeth. Immediately Philip Sir  told me to go learn French, which was worse than Maths Ram. Learnt that too, in Alliance Francaise  B’lore.

And that is how I became an ETP from EPNER in France, a Maths Ram using the same logic of ‘Bolivian Algebra’.

Eject, Eject …………….

 After 8 yrs service, flying Daks and Mi4s, about 2400 hrs as 1^st pilot, around 3800 hrs on the bottom line, I was sent to FIS to turn from pupa to butterfly, to become a QFI. I went to Tambaram, thinking I was a super stud with a smoking gun. Within a week the establishment used dry ice, deep froze and turned me into a worm with no  self-esteem, perhaps the first step towards beginning of any new learning process, without an attitude. I had no problems re-learning the incredible art of flying the HT-2, and was very comfortable with it unlike my counterpart fighter jocks who had palpitations while flying them. But the  HJT Kiran was something new for me and required much heaving and hoving on my part, nerve wracking palpitations and deep breathing, which could be heard loud  and clear on the intercom, and all the way to Air HQ even without intercom.

 Each HJT those  days had its own handling characterises and none behaved in the same disciplined manner. Indiscipline was rampant even amongst aircraft. I felt acutely claustrophobic in the air tight  cockpit and  was frightened of sitting on an ejection seat, since I was not  used to such a contraption earlier. I kept  thinking, what if the ejection seat fired on its own ?’ !!! Perhaps it was a common phobia  with all non-fighter jocks those days. I confess that I did contemplate not taking the ruddy safety pins out, but the conscientious ground crew were very zestful and  would not close the canopy till they had counted the pins in my hand and made sure that I put  them in my pocket before they closed the hatch.

 Because of the exceptional teaching skill of late Sengupta Sir, an A2 instructor awaiting Iraq tenure,  I was cleared 1^st  &  2^nd  solo on schedule  on HT2 & HJT without  a glitch. Sengupta was a silent instructor, he was a man of  few words and didn’t offer to teach me, ‘I will show you how’ type of pitter-patter !! He believed that given a chance I would learn on my own. I  did have a major problem learning to do barrel rolls, which usually started as a wing over, turned to a loop, and ended in a spin. I learnt this  manoeuvre finally from venerable Gals (Sr) Sir, who got arthritis and diver’s bends trying to show me how  to barrel using his  hands. We didn’t have model a/c with a danda up its chuff those days in  FIS and the articulation of the elbows had a limit for teaching aerobatics like a barrel roll !!

Then disaster struck. I was programmed the next day for a solo sortie on HJT, with a 75 kg kit bag dead weight on the other seat, a 45’ sortie profile involving solo 3 turn spin & aerobatics on tow line Gudwancheri,  return, do an over shoot and land back.

 Our  daily routine in FIS was met briefing and a 45 mts quiz test of emergencies by then Flt Cdr, venerable  Chilly Rao Sir starting at 0445, mainly to emphasise that one’s silly cheap Casio digital aircrew watch, that couldn’t and wouldn’t keep time with Big Ben,  was the only instrument worth monitoring in the cockpit. I  think Chilly Sir had too many Bingo warning  lights in his life except at the bar where he did ample mid-air refuelling !! The briefing was usually followed by flying till lunch time and classes on aeronautic subjects in the post lunch session till 1730 hrs.  Some evenings, night flying too, after day flying and classes.

Most of us married types lived in a then nameless, address-less, horrible colony, two  rooms  with an ‘Indian Commodore’ to bomb poo in haunching posture,  near what  is now Chinmaya Colony, a 45 mts drive from FIS on my ‘Hamara Bajaj’. My wife had aborted take-offs three times in a married life of less than two years because of my smoking gun, bumpy roads and Hamara Bajaj. Because she was pregnant again (smoking gun) she was advised bed rest during the fourth time, when we reported to FIS. So it was my job to cook, clean, sew, knit, whatever……..while doing pitter-patter’ nonstop. My wife helped, knew it by heart while  I didn’t, and would often comment, ’Ayyo, so  stupid idiot, during stall you are supposed to say, feel the aircraft juddering’, while I was juddering trying to sweep swap under the bed at 0300 hrs before met briefing and ‘Kaun Banega Murga’ quiz contest by Chilly Sir with greater aplomb than Big B !!!   Evenings, my incredibly hungry nephews or thirsty bachelor course mates would drop in and I  had to cook Beef Biriyani and act like ‘Uncle’ the barman in Poona, pour myself as much or more than my guests.

I just didn’t have time to learn ‘pitter or patter’, or learn any lesson from the most interesting and enjoyable lectures of Wg Cdr Rao Sir, the Nav instructor who had mischievous intensions to make us QNIs and not QFIs.  CO FIS Ubgade Sir, unsuccessfully tried to teach us precession of gyroscopes, holding a pointer above his head and rotating his hips like Hellen doing ‘Mera Nam Chi Chinn Chu’. But our gyros were rigid and refused to precess or process Kutta’s theorem and Magnus effect from Naval Aviator’s ‘Ki Pen Di Who’, the Bible fished out and smuggled from test pilot’s school in Patuxent River. We generally  slept in class because afternoons were siesta time in RIAF. The strategic location to sleep in class, learnt in NDA, was the front row;  right under the instructor’s nose. The only persons  who didn’t sleep in class was my cm NV Tyagi,  and the youngest in the batch, Raha. Both used precession and rigidity to navigate and climb to flight levels DCAS/CAS; rest of us either killed ourselves or retired due to  lack of any knowledge, to learn or to teach.

Just joking !!!

 It was a rainy day when I  was programmed for 3^rd solo and took a while for  the  weather to clear.

So I signed the F-700, walked to  the HJT emulating a fighter pilot’s zestful gait during a scramble, kicked the tyres, peeped into the poo hole jet pipe, noted the number of asymmetric saw tooth vortex generators on and under the wing (very sharp to touch or fondle), jumped into the cockpit, buckled up, hesitantly  took out  the pins to show off to the  ground crew that I had courage to sit on the hot seat. They closed the hatch and  incarcerated me in the HJT, no escape. So I pressed the tit, released brakes, fondled the ‘Dooshang’, and was ready to go, looking for tryst with my destiny.

 I lined up on the dumbbell, arrow  straight, held the Kiran on brakes, opened full throttle. I checked my watch to see if it was still working,  just as Chilly Sir had told me to, and let go the brakes. The HJT rolled down the centre line without my intervention. I only looked at my watch and not the ASI, as Chilly Sir had advised during ‘Kaun Banega Murga’ quiz contest, without ‘phone a friend’ option.

I was just getting ready to pull back and unstick when I got ‘Hicum Fookum’,  sudden vertical rush of poo, from butt to brain . The A/C was on fire. Smoke was billowing out  of  the air  conditioning ducts below the instrument panel. I was just about to pull the ejection handle when I remembered that HJT didn’t have ground level ejection. So I unstuck and climbed like a bat out of hell. In my panic, I also forgot to  give a  mayday call, but did remember to raise the undercarriage.

I hauled on the straps, looked at my watch, straightened my spine, sat erect, reached for the ejection handle between my legs and pulled.  Sadly it was not the ejection handle that I was holding and violently pulled, but my precious  gonads. I screamed. The trachea and eustachian tube choked the juggler and the upward flow of poo, hicum  fookum stopped. The HJT kept climbing without any intervention from me.

 When hicum fookum stopped, my wits returned, I began to look around and not get overwhelmed by the cheap Casio digital air crew watch. All cockpit instruments appeared normal and there were no  warning lights blinking at me. Strangely the smoke coming out of the air conditioning duct had  no smoky smell. When I crossed 5 or 6 thousand feet, smoke stopped coming out  from the ducts. The  smoke was just condensation, I remembered that it was a wet, rainy and humid day.

 I then went and did whatever I  was to  do over Goodwancheri and landed back without any fuss.  Became a QFI without much ado.

 On a  recent Indigo flight from Hyd to Mumbai, after take-off, the  passenger sitting next to me, started shouting ‘fire, fire, fire’. Smoke was seen coming out of the  air conditioning duct behind the overhead baggage compartments. He had hicum fookum. So I told him to eject, by  grabbing and tugging his gonads. His trachea and eustachian tube choked the juggler and the upward flow of poo, hicum  fookum stopped. But it gave him erectile dysfunction like me. No more smoking guns.

 Be careful, look what you are holding, before you pull the ejection handle between the legs !!!

‘Unniz Turning Beez’

During the hyper stage of ex ‘Brass-Tacks’ (BT) in 1986, when war seemed imminent, 104 (an Anti-Tank Guided Missile Unit - ATGM) was deployed near No 6 (Independent) Armour Brigade, on featureless sandy terrain south of Suratgarh (no helipad, just bloody sand). We were completely dependent on the Brigade HQ to give us water, food, cooking utensils, fire wood, tambu, bucket, dry sanitation WC,  aviation fuel, SS-11 missiles, batmen, field protection, candles, mugs,  plate, fork & spoon, vehicles, communication land line with field telephone, bunkers with Charpoy, field camouflage netting, picks and shovels to dig trenches, ………..whatever, long list, for around 22 AF officers and 70 air men; essentials required to live in the dessert to fight another day. 

You see, the AF operates on a ‘Mother Syndrome’ with air bases acting as Mother. One just has to fly from base to base, go to Mummy (the Chief Operations Officer or Chief Adm Ofiicer) and tell him, ‘Ma…., I am  hungry’. They take care of you. But 104 was kicked out of air bases and told to go fight with the army. Army has ‘Step Father Syndrome’, no mother to report to. In 104, we had never heard of WET (war equipment table) the big list, that enables all army units to Platoon level, to live in a ditch in Timbuktu and run overnight to fight in  Burkina Faso, without Mummy, just WET.  

We did go to 6(I) Armd Bde HQ and beg the venerable Commander, ‘Ma…, I am hungry’. But he acted like Father without Mother. Told us to stay far away from him, lest we steal his prized dry sanitation porcelain WC with pig attached. The tragedy was that the army, though kind and helpful, had none of their WET to spare, they had themselves got into the battle mode, constantly on the move. So we had to beg borrow and steal, live off the land, often capturing tiny desert hamlets vacated by villagers who had panicked fearing war and had run away. 6(I) Armd Bde also had this nasty habit  of daily running away from us, without any notice, into new highly camouflaged dugouts, miles away from  the previous one, leaving us like headless chicken. So every morning we had to first fly a reconnaissance mission to find 6(I) hiding under camouflaged nets to beg them for WET and also what they wanted us do in war.

‘I am busy, go play with Col GS’, the Cdr 6(I) would counsel like a benevolent father without mother.

When Col GS was approached, he would counsel, ‘Oh go play outside, do whatever you want’, like mother preparing for coitus with father.

So we made war on our own, along the IB, converting the young boys into 2, 3, and 4 helicopter ‘combat leaders’ to lead attack formations, mostly at 25 feet. 25 feet was important. That was to keep ourselves below the enemy radar, the sneaky Air Defence type, and approach radar buggers, under camouflaged nets at Suratgarh. They had a nasty habit of daily reporting to Air-I and C-in-C Western Air Command in Delhi that 104 was uncontrolled nasty cavaliers ruining the ‘Air Space Management’ in TBA.  At 25’ we were phantoms of the sky, none knew where we were or what we did. Great fun pretending to shoot Indian army tanks and hay stacks where ever we could find one, with dud missiles that had no batteries.  We didn’t see any Pakis about, and hence couldn’t scare them with the dud missiles.

This story is really not about BT.   It is about ‘Unniz Turning Beez’. So here we go.

On a freaking hot day during BT, while the Pak and Indian armies were doing sensible siesta under camouflaged netting, I volunteered to ferry an ATGM  Chetak, whose rotor had got damaged by a stone, back to Sarsawa (Saharanpur) and bring back another one, by evening.  The CO W/C JK Kaushik  asked me to  take along a troublesome younger Rimcolian YS, a year junior to me, whose ambition was to be an investment banker, not a pilot, though he wore a wing and claimed flying bounty. ‘Only you can sort him  out’, the CO told me, ‘make him fly’.

So I dragged YS by his elbow to the helicopter.

‘Do you want to fly ?, I asked  YS when we were strapped up in the cockpit.

‘He, he, he, he, he’ YS neighed like a  horse.

‘What does that mean, he he he he ?’ I asked raising my eyebrows in consternation.

‘It means No’, pat came the reply.

Two  Rimcolians should never be allowed to fly together. I could not even bullshit YS, due to Rimcolian camaraderie. Just had to lump it, hoping I could  learn from him the art of investment banking and ‘Das Ka Bis, or at least convert me from ‘Unniz to Beez’, like my Fox Sqn senior, venerable ‘Ekkis’ who turned to ‘Bayees’.

So while YS sat reading a three months old ‘Financial Times’ (analysing share prices),  I climbed up to 8000’, tuned the radio  compass to Sarsawa and made the 162 nautical miles long  uneventful trip without  navigating, though the Chetak was behaving like a cocktail shaker making martini out of me. I collected the replacement Chetak  immediately but YS went home to  do ‘de-sludging’, pumping out the bilge, which took all afternoon. He returned with a smug very satisfied look, about 1’ 50” before sunset, with a bundle of 2 month’s backlog of  Financial Times and investment guide under his arm, material to destroy Paki economy in case we lost the war. There was barely enough time to get back to the featureless sandy terrain south of Suratgarh with no helipad, just bloody sand, before the sun set.

‘Do you want to fly ?, I asked  YS again, when we were strapped up.

‘He he he he he’, YS neighed like a  horse.

I didn’t ask what that meant. He had already told me earlier.

‘Look YS’, I told him. ‘While coming, it was easy to find Sarsawa. But now we have to go back and find the Op Location, the ruddy featureless sandy terrain south of Suratgarh with no helipad, just bloody sand, before the sun set. We have just this stupid B2 golf ball sized compass and it is going round and round seeking north, due to your magnetic personality. Please help me to navigate 162 nautical miles using eye ball Mark-1 and this moving thumb display’, I lamented, waggling my thumb.

‘OK, give me your map, I will do map reading’, he said with churlish Rimcolian camaraderie.  So I gave him my map, the 1935 edition standard Lambert’s Polygonic,  1: one million, where  earth is just a dot in the solar system. I got busy getting airborne and making a bee line for the  ruddy Op Location, the featureless sandy terrain south of Suratgarh with no helipad, just bloody sand.

‘Beware, Sirsa, Suratgarh and Bhatinda are active. Low level  fighter flying’, Sarsawa Air Traffic Control whispered in my ear like Nostradamus, and the radio went dead perhaps because it was shocked by Nostradamus . I should have turned around and gone back to Sarsawa, but I didn’t. I knew that if we turned back, YS will  go back home and by the time he finished de-sludging again and again, and finished analysing two month’s back log of share prices, the war would be over. So I just said ‘f*** it’, descended to 25’ feet above ground, where neither crows nor fighters dare to fly. I set course for the microscopic 'dead reckoning' point on the million map, that was our Op Location, the ruddy featureless sandy terrain south of Suratgarh with no helipad, just bloody sand, before the sun set, with YS doing map  reading.

I cut across the control zones of both Sirsa and S’Garh, with no radio contact, and only occasional ‘whisper contact’ with God. But even God was silent when I  whispered into his ear, like my wife when she had PMS and I had to resort to ‘Apna Hath Jaganath’, the moving thumb type. I had to go 162 nautical miles, at 90 knots, at 25 feet above ground, the setting sun shining right into my eyes, a flying time of about 1’ 50”, with 2’30” of  fuel before the fuel warning light came on, explicitly  demanding that I force land.

I knew that at 25 feet, at full pelt 90 kts, the orographic wind was not likely to take me off course. But the air driven gyro Direction Indicator (DI) was definitely going to lead my illustrious career astray, especially if I didn’t synchronise it with the B2 compass every few minutes. Since the B-2 was still going around seeking north, I neither had the DI nor the B2 golf ball to steer. I only had YS to save me, turn me from  ‘Unniz To Beez’

‘Are we on track ?’,  I would ask YS every few minutes  out of anxiety.

‘Yes Boos, Tickety Boo’, YS would respond.

I was very happy that I didn’t have to do mental  maths, 1/60 rule to figure out drift + closing angle to  get back on track. As we progressed, we buzzed trees and villages , and ducked under 33 & 66 kVA HT cables just close to the pylons, and didn’t bump into any crows or fighters. Soon, in the setting sun, the green countryside turned brown  and then yellow as we approached the deserts. Sand dunes started popping up and we pooped up with it . Went down when the dunes were not popping out like Champaign corks – a tactic called ‘nap of the earth flying’. I was hoping that all this excitement will enthuse YS to start flying and also help convert me from ‘Unniz to Beez’ in the share market.   

We flew along merrily for 1 hour and 50 minutes.

I began to look for our Op Location.

I didn’t find Father Brig, Mother Col GS or my venerable CO 104 waving out to me.

There was no sign of life, just sand dunes.

‘Where are we ?’ I asked YS with mounting trepidation. ‘Where the f*** are we ?’

‘Tickety Boo Boss’, YS answered.

That is when I noticed that YS was holding Lambert upside down, facing north when we were heading south. YS had no cue of map reading or moving thumb.

‘Jesus Christ’, I screamed.  ‘YS you bugger, where the f*** are we ?’

‘Don’t shout at me’, YS ordered. He promptly threw the map into my lap. He put on his reading glass and took out his share-market score card.

I pulled up, a better manoeuvre than to pile up.

It is difficult to fly at 25’ and do moving thumb display, especially when one is lost and don’t know where to poke the thumb into Lambert.

I called up Suratgarh hoping to get a homing or bearing, but the radio was silent.

I back tracked looking for something, it  didn’t matter what.

There was nothing to see except desert and a few Kikar trees here and there.

I flew around in  expanding circles hoping to see something, anything other than the dessert and Kikar trees that will get me find my destination.

I began to sweat profusely out of nervous tension.

I began to recite Hanuman Chalis, but immediately realised that Hanuman can’t hear me without the radio.

I tried to remember desert survival lessons;  water, food and shelter. We had none of these things on board.

I looked at the fuel gauge since looking at anything else was quite useless, I was absolutely lost.

We had about 20” fuel left.

The sun was about to set.

Then  I saw goats, a whole bunch of them and a single ‘Lambadi’ with a long stick herding them. Hanuman must have heard my Chalis, or Unnis, sent goats to guide me to Valhalla.

Immediately I descended and landed next to the Lambadi, kept the rotors running and told YS to hold on to the controls while I went to enquire from the Lambadi ‘where the f*** were we’.

The goats, a barking dog and the Lambadi started to run away.

I ran like Usain Bolt right after them and did a baseball tackle. The Lambadi started bashing my bone dome with his long stick thinking I was a Martian with the visor down over the Oxygen mask. The barking dog turned to a biting dog.  I took off the bone dome to look human, and wrenched the stick from the Lambadi, gave the dog a whack and a kick. It started yelping, making the sheep mad.

I let fly a few Punjabi epithets, just to sound human, making it sound like upper crust Mewari cum Marwari (‘Todde Ma Ki Dal’ /’Teri Pen De Ink’).  That helped convince the Lombard that I wasn’t Martian. Punjabi epithets help calm barking dogs and the sheep too.

‘Hukkum, Hukkum’, the Lambadi kept repeating senselessly, not understanding a word of any language I tried including ‘Punjab Ki Voh’.

So I gave up and returned to the helicopter.

When I strapped up again, I noticed the tiny little white lamb, amongst the bunch of black sheep. The bugger had high level of ‘Officer Like Qualities’ and was leading the pack.

I sat there for a while, looking at the direction they were going.

I picked up the helicopter and followed them, over taking them after a few minutes.

The sun set and the afterglow began to fade. Within minutes the desert became pitch dark.

Then in the distance I saw petro-max lamps,  several of them.

It was my Sqn deployed in a wady, adjacent to a hamlet with a well, from where the sheep had come.

When I landed, I didn’t have to switch off, the engine conked out on its own because the fuel had finished.

That night I made YS a ‘Char Sau Bis’ and made him sign for everyone’s drink, though he didn’t drink any.

He didn’t share his trade secrets, from share market, to  make me Unniz Ka Beez, I remained Unnis.

I don’t chant Hanuman’s Chalis anymore, the radio has quit.

So I chant ‘Ba Ba Black Sheep, Can You Show Me The Way’ !!!

I am still ‘Unnis’ and have not become ‘Beez’.

CYCLIC

My ‘Spider Man’ - Mohammad Ali

On the first day I reported to 43 Sqn, 46 years ago, everyone at Jorhat had ‘passed out’. Bhang, victory in war and Holi when combined, does that to everyone, they march off to Valhalla. I was then just 20 yrs old.

A young boy, perhaps around 15 or 16, came silently, picked up my steel trunk and hold all bag, put them on his head, and took them to a barely furnished TRS room with a toilet, which then became my ‘home’ for next five years. The young boy was a refugee from East Pak.  ‘Ami Mohammad Ali’, he said grabbing my hand and shaking it vigorously. He couldn’t speak a word of any language which I understood and looked like an undernourished monkey in torn and tattered unwashed clothes. He spread my ‘hold all’ on the nawar cot, took out  the extra bed sheet and pillow, and  moved in with me, under my bed. He then took over my life.

Ali had no relatives and nowhere to go.  Very quickly he put on weight, grew as tall as I, and took possession of everything I owned; my clothes, razor and after shave, flying overalls, Ray Ban, Akai Music System and took to wearing my formal mess dress, the ‘the white patrols’ with a side cap. ‘It has become  small for you, go make another one’ he ordered. Very quickly Ali learnt not only Hindi and a bit of English, but also to sign extra messing chits for  himself copying my signature, write dhobi list for both of our clothes, polish his shoes better than mine, fix our uniforms (my white patrols which wore with élan), clean our room and even demanded 15% of my Rs 330 salary as my 24x7 living-in soul mate; my exclusive ‘Spider Man’.

As bound to happen between comrades, he started keeping a tab on my GFs too. ‘Mem ya Phaltu ?’, he would enquire, and got pissed off if I ticked him off or told him to mind his own business, go and sleep  under someone else’s bed.  Everything concerning me was his only business. If I was happy he was happy, and sad when I was sad. When I went outstation, or on detachment, Ali would wear my flying overalls and surreptitiously board my aircraft. ‘Someone has to take care of Saheb, even in the air’, he would say if any one questioned. I was not allowed to question Ali. Soon Ali became my banker. He had converted my tiny Godrej shaving soap tin into a piggy bank, and always had Rs 5 of my own money to loan to me in crisis. Rs 5 was enough to conquer the world those days. When I became an Adjutant, Ali learnt AF Act 1950, AFOs, AFIs, and the fat AP-129 (aeronautical subjects), just to read the riot act to me if I wasn’t nice to him.  When I went on posting, Ali knew all about travel regulations, warrants and Form-Ds. ‘If the Government Sahiban allows you to carry a horse or mule on posting, what is your problem taking me with you ?’, he would ask. So Ali became my shadow, mentor and companion where ever I went.

After about eight years I decided to get married. Ali went around shouting ‘Mem Aa Raha Hai, Ab Se Sahib Ke Pas Phaltu Nahing Hoga’. Bloody rascal !!! 

After a week or so, he started scratching his head and when I enquired why, he told me that he too wanted a ‘Mem’, that he had someone in mind. So he loaded my Jawa dicky with 4 bottles of my Rum, put me behind my bike and took me to the village, wearing flying overalls and my Ray Ban. ‘Ladki Aur Uska Bap Ko Patao’, Ali ordered, ‘you are very experienced and like my father’, he added. So  after protracted negotiations for about an hour, fixing a bride price of 4 bottles of Rum, Ali was married to Bhanu, a young , simple, 16 yr old village lass. He wanted to bring Bhanu and set up  home under my bed. This time I read the riot act to him and very humbly suggested that he become a ‘Ghar Jamai’ with his new in laws in the village till I could find suitable accommodation for him in the Air Force camp. As  wedding present Ali appropriated my entire ‘Camp Kit’ and piggy bank,  and made me buy a cycle for him.  After that I went and got married to T and brought her back to  Chabua.

T & Ali hit it off from day one, mainly because he would regale her with never ending stories of my bachelor life and T was hell bent on hearing every word in the series of torrid stories. She said she wanted to get to know the man she married.  I was hoping to start with a clean slate and Ali was a strategic nuclear threat. He even offered to take T sightseeing on my mo-bike and introduce my old GFs. That is when I read the riot act the second time, and threatened to chop off Ali’s gonads. 

Ali remained my Jeeves, refusing to do anything unlawful which T ordered. He often quoted AF Act, 1/60 rule and even Vir Narayan’s Point of No Return formula.  Ali knew about those things more than I did.  But between Ali and I there was no law, just exemplary loyalty arising from gratitude. He was a refugee with no family, except me. Perhaps reason why he believed that everything that I had was his too. Ali worshipped T, followed her about like a Labrador puppy. When we were posted in NDA, I got Ali a job in MES, as an electrician. He was good at that sort of thing, short-circuiting my life. In due course, while I moved on, because Ali was intelligent, industrious and a good worker,  he rose to  be a foreman in GE’s staff in NDA. Bhanu and Ali reared five sons, all of them, Super-Men, the elder two joined the Indian Army.

When I took a PMR from AF in 1994, Ali heard about it and came to see me in Delhi. We sat and chatted about good old times. He expressed his wish to make a visit to B’Desh, ‘just to go see if there is any one left, and to check whether I still own the “Do Bigha’ that my father owned before the ‘Bhoka Choda’ killed him.  My sons must see where I came from.

‘Where do you come from?’, I asked after 23 years.

Ali was quiet for some time thinking. ‘I don’t know Sir’, he said sincerely.

‘Where do you come from ?’, Ali asked me in turn.

I sat there in the evening hours of my life, thinking. ‘I don’t know either Ali’, I said with equal sincerity. We were two flotsams from nowhere who met and fused as brothers.

Ali took his family and went back to B’Desh, never heard from his afterwards. Perhaps he went home, no longer a refugee. I am still  a refugee, hoping that I can find my roots, and that Ali would come back and sleep under my bed, to keep me safe and content, just the way  he did when we were young.

Cheers Mohammad Ali. I owe you.

CYCLIC